A Debt of Mercy

Mari’s POV “Pressure!” I shouted. “Somebody get me more pressure!” It was 2:14 in the morning when the doors to St. Brigid’s emergency room banged open, making everyone in the waiting room jump. Two paramedics rushed in with a stretcher. The man lying on it was gray-faced, his black suit soaked dark red from shoulder to hip. “Male, thirties, gunshot wound to the upper back,” Rick, the older paramedic, said as we hurried along. “Lost a lot of blood on the way. No ID. We’re calling him John Doe.” “Trauma Two!” I called. “Lena, get me four units of O-negative!” “On it!” Lena was already moving, her ponytail swinging behind her. I pressed both hands against the wound. It felt hot and slippery beneath my gloves. The man’s head lolled to one side. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a nose that looked as though it had been broken once and never properly set. Even half-dead, he had a hard, quiet face. The kind of face that belonged to someone used to being obeyed. My name is Marisol Vega. Everyone calls me Mari. I'm twenty-seven, and I've worked nights in this ER for five years. I've seen plenty of blood. I know what it means when someone loses this much. He had maybe twenty minutes. The monitor showed sixty over thirty, and the numbers were still dropping. His skin felt cold and damp beneath my palm. I cut through his suit jacket with trauma shears, taking the white shirt with it where it had stuck to his skin with blood. One sleeve was torn at the cuff, loose threads hanging from the edge. He still had his shoes on. Handmade leather, polished, without a scratch. Nobody who was bleeding like this wore shoes like those by accident. “Where’s Dr. Pryce?” I asked. “Here.” Dr. Alan Pryce, the chief of surgery, came through the double doors wearing a gray sweater, his glasses pushed up on his head. He was fifty, tall, and calm, with silver at his temples. He was the reason I’d become a nurse. When I was a frightened twenty-two-year-old student, he’d stopped me in a hallway and said, “You’ve got steady hands, Vega. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” “Gunshot wound to the upper back. He’s lost a lot of blood,” I said. “We need the OR now.” “I’ll take it from here.” He looked at the man, and something flickered across his face. It happened too quickly for me to make sense of it. “Mari, step out.” “What?” “I’ll handle this myself.” “I’m the trauma nurse. I should—” “Step out, please.” I stared at him. In five years, Dr. Pryce had never once asked me to leave a trauma room. “Sure,” I said slowly. “I’ll just get the supplies.” I didn't leave. I stepped back a couple of paces and pretended to check a monitor. That was when the man on the stretcher opened his eyes. They were gray, and completely awake. His hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. It hurt. I gasped, but nobody noticed. Dr. Pryce had turned away to speak to a technician. “Don’t,” the man whispered. His voice was little more than a rasp. Sweat ran down his face, and his lips had turned gray. “Don’t call anyone. Don’t let them take me.” “You’re in a hospital,” I whispered back. “You’re safe.” “No.” His eyes held mine. “I’m not.” I heard footsteps in the hallway. Several pairs, moving quickly, their steps heavy against the floor. Two men in dark suits appeared in the doorway of Trauma Two. They were big, with flat faces and the kind of watchful stillness I’d seen in exactly one other kind of person: bank security guards. “Excuse me,” the taller one said smoothly. “We’re family. We’ve come to take him home.” My patient’s grip tightened. The heart monitor began screaming. His numbers climbed so quickly I thought the machine might break. He stared at the two men in the doorway, his lips moving without a sound. I understood anyway. Not mine. “Sir,” I said as calmly as I could, “he’s in critical condition. He needs an operating room.” “We have a private doctor waiting,” the taller man said. “We’ll take him from here.” “I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. We’ll need to see ID and—” “That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Pryce said quietly. I turned towards him. He was looking at the two men. He gave them a small, polite nod, as though they’d arranged to meet. Then, for just a moment, his eyes moved towards the double doors and the security guard standing there before returning to me. Step out, please. The back of my neck tightened. I looked at the man on the stretcher. His eyes were beginning to fade, but he kept looking at me. Please. It wasn't really a decision. My body moved before I could think it through. I released the stretcher brakes, turned it around, and shoved. “Mari!” Dr. Pryce shouted. “Lena!” I yelled. “Door!” Bless her, Lena took one look at my face and didn't ask a single question. She pushed the swinging door open with her hip. I rushed the stretcher through, past the supply room and down the back hallway. Behind us, two men were shouting, and the IV pole rattled along beside the stretcher. I didn't stop until we reached the service elevator. The doors opened. I wheeled him inside and jammed my thumb against the button for the loading dock. The doors slid shut. Someone on the other side slammed a fist against them. Once. Twice. The elevator began to descend. Three floors. It felt like thirty. The old elevator groaned and shuddered on its cables, and blood soaked through my sleeves, warm all the way to my elbows. I did what I always did when someone was slipping away. I talked. About the weather. The terrible coffee in the break room. Lena’s cat, who hated everyone except me. His eyes stayed on my face the entire way down. I pressed my hands against his wound again. Blood seeped between my fingers. “Stay with me,” I whispered. “Stay awake. Talk to me.” “Why?” he asked. “What?” “Why did you do it?” I looked down at him. His face was gray and hollow. He should have been unconscious by now, but he was hanging on through sheer stubbornness. “Because you were bleeding,” I said. The corner of his mouth moved. Almost a smile. The elevator opened onto the loading dock. Rain hammered the concrete. A black SUV sat beneath the awning, its headlights off and its engine running. A huge, bald man in a black overcoat jumped out. A scar ran across his forehead, and he had a gun in his hand. He raised it towards me. “Silvio,” my patient croaked. “Down.” The gun lowered immediately. “Boss?” The big man’s voice shook. “Boss!” “He’s lost a liter and a half,” I said quickly. “The bullet’s still in him. He needs surgery within the next hour, and not here. Not at this hospital. Take him somewhere you trust.” “Who the hell are you?” “Nobody.” I pushed the stretcher towards the SUV. “Hurry.” They lifted him inside together, moving quickly but carefully. The bald man handled him as if he’d done this before. As they began closing the door, my patient reached out of the darkness and caught my sleeve. His fingers were still curled around something small. I’d noticed a flash of gold in his fist when he grabbed my wrist. Now he opened his hand. A heavy gold cufflink lay in his palm, torn from a sleeve, with a thread still dangling from it. “Keep it,” he whispered. “Don’t show anyone.” I took it. It was warm. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Marisol Vega.” “Marisol Vega,” he repeated, as if committing it to memory. His eyes drifted shut. “I won’t forget.” The SUV roared away into the rain. I stood there, soaked through, blood on my hands and the cufflink clenched in my fist. Far above us, an alarm had started ringing, thin and endless. Rain trickled down inside my collar. “Mari.” I turned. Dr. Pryce stood alone in the doorway of the loading dock. His glasses were crooked. In the dim light, his face looked completely unfamiliar. It was hard and cold, nothing like the face of the man who’d once told me I had steady hands. “Where is he?” he asked quietly. “Who?” “My patient.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “You’ve made a mistake.” He took a step closer. “A terrible mistake, Mari. And you can’t undo it.” I closed my hand around the cufflink. It had never felt so heavy.